The Sixth Army
by Modern Artifact
Summary: Much is written of the Battle of Five Armies, but forgotten to history is the Sixth. This tale of Easterlings being summoned to take Erebor will be told through the journey of one of Sauron's servants, a general of the Easterling Empire and Elf estranged from her culture. Called to Dol Guldur, in Mirkwood this villain will discover more than her Elvish origins. Eventual Legomance.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sorry about an intro Q&A but figured these might be asked.**

**Why did you decide to write The Sixth Army?**

Many readers of "Sun Sets in the West" showed particular interest in dark!Vezely when I delved into the character's evil past or her sinister personality came out through various situations. I enjoy ambiguous characters and wanted to try my hand at writing Vezely the villain. The Hobbit filmscape provided a perfect stage to try her out.

**Do I need to have read "The Sun Sets in the West"? **

Nope. This is a completely different universe for the characters. For example, in this timeline Vezely has never before entered Mirkwood, so she has never met Legolas or Thranduil before their inevitable meeting in this story.

If you have read "Sun Sets," you will see some connections (personality traits, some of the same background histories for my OCs might be similar, etc.) but all circumstances and futures have changed. It is definitely an AU.

**This seems rather dark so...is it really a love story?**

Yes. A slow, uncomfortable burn, however, that will try and remain true to Peter Jackson's vision as it unfolds in TaBA, Tauriel plotline and all I'm afraid. I can promise a satisfying ending (that will continue through to the LOTRs times), but with the journey anything goes (those who read "Sun Sets" will know what I mean). Also, I try and cater to my readers/reviewers and aim to please you so comments are appreciated as I move along.

If you have other questions I will answer them on here or on the Tumblr (vezely .tumblr), which will also act as an extended media space for this fic. Feel free to follow me and I will follow you back!

Now onto the new fic!

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**The Sixth Army**

**Synopsis: **Much is written of the Battle of Five Armies, but forgotten to history is the Sixth. This tale of the Easterling forces summoned West will be told through the journey of one of Sauron's servants, a general of the Easterling Empire and Elf estranged from her culture. Called to Dol Guldur, in Mirkwood she will discover more than her Elvish origins. AU to "Sun Sets in the West" and eventually Legomance

**Rated M** for some language, acts of violence, and adult themes.

Currently** In Progress**

The avatar was created by the wonderful artist, TMI143. Please check out more of her art on Deviant Art and on the Tumblr for this story, **vezely . tumblr . com**, where I post extra media and hope to interact with readers a bit more. If you add me, I will add you back!

**Disclaimer:** I of course do not own Tolkien's creation(s), only my OCs and some creative extension into the realms Tolkien left blank (i.e. Rhun). I do try to remain true to canon as best I can in terms of the known customs and culture of Toklien's races.

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**Chapter 1 - I See Fire**

_A dragon. A dragon is a pure weapon of destruction._

_I have use for a dragon._

The black coal lined eyes of the armored woman warrior were narrowed on the smoldering embers of what remained of a once sprawling mountain village in the outer provinces. As she stood on the rocky overlook, her mind was unduly consumed by future devices planted there by a letter couriered from the magistrates of the Easterling Empire just four days prior.

_"Report to Dol Guldur..."_ it commanded her, _"The Master summons you by name..."_

She did not uncross her arms or remove her far-off gaze upon hearing the steady approach of a subordinate officer.

A young female soldier with sun kissed skin, shoulder length black hair and cropped fringe clicked her heels together after halting at her side. She briefly brought her fist to her chest and tilted her head down in a display of respect for her commanding officer. "General."

"Captain." She returned solidly with the woman's rank, waiting to hear the information she sent her to return with.

"Eight infantry. Three cavalry. Sixteen wounded."

The hot breath released from the General's nostrils turned the frigid air momentarily visible, materializing her disdain for the number of casualties accrued from their assault that raged earlier that day.

Spring's warmer weather had not yet found its way to the mountains of upper Logathavuld in Northern Rhun, where she was forced to lead one of her contingents. _Rebellions_. _Years of rebellions._ Two Istari, powerful wizards of origins unknown to Rhun's inhabitants, were traveling the lands and refueling hope in tribes that desired independence from the Easterling Empire; from the Dark Lord's dominion. They were building a resistance. As General of the Easterling Coalition, it was her responsibility to maintain order. Squashing unruly states had become her main occupation, when it should have been growing an army in preparation for the promised war against the Western infidels.

Keeping apace aside the long strides of her tall superior officer as they descended the rocky cliff, the young Captain remarked assuredly, "These peasants are getting bolder. They do not know when they are outclassed."

"Would you?" The General shifted her blue grey eyes momentarily to the younger warrior, who thirteen years ago stood aside her as a precocious squire not twelve years of age. Cyane had risen to the rank of Captain just two years ago, though she still remained at the General's side during important campaigns.

Next to the trail splayed along the ground in haphazard piles were spears, axes, swords, bows and arrows crafted from origins all over Rhun. They were found hidden in the caves that dotted the hillsides that surrounded the town. The inhabitants were building an armory; it was suspected they were one of the many camps dotted throughout the outer provinces that formed the resistance's hidden network.

They would pass the supine bodies of the men and women who lost their lives in the assault; several of her soldiers dead for what she deemed a senseless and disrespectful rebellion. She gritted her teeth, and held her head high as they continued to march onward through a row of patiently waiting, though freezing warriors. They were armored lightly in golden scales while their raiment was scarlet and black, but it was sullied by the damp mud and smeared with the blood of the town's inhabitants, who they were given orders to wipe off the map. Each placed a fist to their chest and bowed their heads in reverence as their General passed.

Her name was Vezely. An elf by blood, or 'white fiend' as Easterlings called members of the race of the firstborn. But by heart and culture she was a Balchoth. Descendents of the legendary chariot-riding Wainriders, the Balchoth were once the fiercest alliance of tribes that side of the River Anduin. They occupied the flat lands of Rhovanion, southeast of the Sea of Rhun. A strong nation made even stronger by training their women to fight alongside their men. A tradition upheld by many tribes today, and institutionalized by the Easterling Empire.

In 2510 of the Third Age, the Balchoth notoriously invaded Calenardhon in the northern province of Gondor, raiding and destroying the sparse settlements before claiming the land as their own. Despite their defeat at the hands of a newly formed alliance between the Éothéod of Rohan and the armies of Gondor, it established a precedent for the Easterlings. From then on, the many tribes of Rhun would pledge allegiance to the Master of Dol Guldur with the promise of one day taking the West as their own. It would also forge an alliance of convenience with the Orcs that inhabited the darker regions of those lands.

It was said that Vezely had her revenge for her people's defeat in 2545 at the Battle of the Wold. She killed Eorl the Young, the first king of Rohan, escaping with his head as trophy. His skull could yet be found at the Easterling Coalition's headquarters north of the Sea of Rhun, sitting upon her desk as a paperweight.

Despite her blood, none dared question her authority or that of the Dark Lord who championed her. To the Balchoth, Sauron was Maladûm, their god of war, and she, the elfling gifted to the Balchoth khanate, would be one of his messengers for the future war. Her ancestry was of importance, Maladûm told them, and her estrangement from her people would satisfy a personal vendetta -_ make her great and terrible and your people will be rewarded_.

The red sun had fallen behind the mountainside and the smoke from the fires kept the approaching light of the stars and moon hidden from the valley. Torches were lit to illuminate the row of kneeling prisoners, each bound in rope as guards stood by with their hands on the hilts of their scimitars.

"General," a broad man, with sullen eyes and a stern demeanor stood in front of them with his arms crossed. He ducked his head only slightly in greeting, for his patience had grown thin waiting for her return.

"Commander," she greeted Öldür, her second in command, with a more polite nod. His penchant for violence also garnered him favor by the magistrates. He had risen to his rank by challenging all those who stood in the position before him. It was rare to evoke what seemed an antiquated ritual among the modern armies of the Easterling Empire, though the custom of challenging a higher ranked officer to the death still stood as a valid means to ascend the ladder. He had killed three officers to now hold the second highest position in the Easterling Coalition, one step below the General. Part of Vezely desired for him to challenge her. She was growing tired of his subtle disrespect and preferred a more malleable officer in his stead.

"This is him?" She awaited Öldür's nod before moving her cold gaze to the prisoner who was separated from the group.

The man's arms were stretched apart as his wrists were chained to two poles. His tunic was barely holding onto his body as the lashes he sustained on his back had ripped the fabric along with his skin. The fact that he was still of this world made it obvious that Öldür was unable to crack him for information; he was waiting for her to try.

She grabbed the man's jaw with her left hand; the gold, claw-like nail rings that graced each fingertip dug into his skin as she raised his face to look upon her. His eyes slowly lifted, but unlike his bloodied body they were yet full of fire as he concentrated his stare upon her; anger writhed within him. He was the leader of town's defense forces, and presumably a member of the resistance.

"You failed to keep your secret, but you need not have more of your townsfolk fall because of it. Give me information of other camps of the resistance and those held here will be released."

She spoke with what the man perceived as questionable sincerity. He knew well of General Vezely and she was not known to have any proclivity for softer tactics. He continued to defy her through his proud stare.

She slowly released his jaw; her sharp gold talons scrapping his skin and drawing blood as she did. _Silence. They always start off silent._ She flicked her chin up, a subtle gesture but one which set nearby guards into action.

They dragged one of the prisoners over and pushed him down at her feet - an older man, gaunt in his face and with gray hair that was thinning on top. He was one of many found huddled in the same caves as the stashed weaponry, attempting to hide as her forces ascended into their town. The soldiers placed a noose around his neck and began to twist and turn it slowly, choking him of life.

Keeping his eyes upon his leader, the old man shook his head, bravely communicating to not do as asked; to not provide them the information they desired even if it meant his death. The leader's chest rose and fell quickly as he watched the old man asphyxiate.

"If not for the life of one, then perhaps for the life of many?" Vezely calmly pondered out loud before ordering, "Kill them all."

The man predictably turned his attention to the line of chained civilians, but Vezely noticed his eyes fell upon one in particular - a young woman whose own tear-filled eyes returned his suddenly fearful gaze.

"Wait." She marched over and grabbed the woman by the hair, dragging her over yelping before casting her forward onto the cold dirt. The leader's torso jerked forward, as he futilely attempted to break free from the bonds that held his hands to the poles.

Vezely smirked pleased and a silent laugh escaped her lips; she had found his weakness. She again pulled the woman up by her hair, desiring her face to look upon his. "This one holds meaning to you."

"I'm s-so sorry Azur," the woman sobbed through her words as the man, presumably her husband, shook in anger.

Steadying the woman aside her, Vezely gently pet her face with her gold talons, as if a mother trying to comfort a child. "Azur. What information would you give for her life?" Her hand moved to the woman's throat and she dug the tip of one of her golden rings into her, causing her to tremble and a drop of blood to trickle down her neck.

"Stop!" In one breath the man finally broke his silence, his eyes engaged with his wife's, telling her not be fearful; that he would save her. "I will give you what you want, but please, no harm to her or anyone else."

Vezely smiled and lifted her sharp metal nail from the woman's neck, "I am listening."

"Northern Kazkulud." The words were released with painful breaths. "The town of Kug. There you will find our sister camp, but that is all the posts we have this region. Please, you must believe me."

While the guards who stood nearby thought their General was considering whether or not she could believe his words, instead Vezely was perplexed. The man was telling the truth, for she could not perceive a lie in his eyes. That one so defiant and proud could fall for the sake of love; this compulsion, she could not even begin to comprehend. And with her confusion, she discovered disgust; a disgust that manifested in snapping the woman's neck.

As she let the lifeless body drop to the ground before her, the leader cried, "Why? I gave you what you wanted!"

"You gave me information, yes, but I have yet to see if it was what I wanted," she returned indifferent of her deed and his suffering. Pivoting on her heel, she ordered, "Kill the men. Sell the women and children to the Harad slavers." She looked to Öldür to share her reasoning, "Might as will get a return for our travel expenses."

Öldür nodded, his grim face not betraying that he was impressed by her cruelty. "And him?"

Vezely looked back upon the leader who was now devoid of a reason to live. "His hands," she returned her eyes to Öldür, "The magistrates desire them. Leave the rest of his body for the wolves." The magistrates would not bestow an identity to the resistance by gathering their leaders' heads; only their hands would grace the walls of the capital.

She had no need to watch as Öldür removed his sword and detached the man from the poles in two swift strokes.

* * *

That evening the warrior's camp was full of life. Fires burned and warriors drank and danced around them to celebrate their minor victory, and to keep their bodies warm in the frigid mountain air.

The fluid sounds of an oboe and clinking of cymbals could be heard inside the small round tent where the General and the Second in Command held a brief meeting. As custom to any meeting, they were served hot tea by Öldür's young squire, who left them shortly after pouring. The two warriors waited for the tea to cool and for it to be sipped and enjoyed before conversing.

On the table in front of them were maps, a majority of which outlined the regions they now walked through. But one sitting to her left was of the regions below the Grey Mountain; of the forest of Mirkwood and Dol Guldur to its south.

Öldür set his cup down, desiring to start the conversation with a question he wanted an answer to."When do we start West?"

She cocked one eyebrow while yet sipping her tea. "You mean when do I start West. You will continue with the contingent north, to Northern Kazkulud."

Öldür's displeasure was not hidden as he diverted his eyes downward onto the map of that region. "You will be honored in our Master's presence," he remarked coolly, for it had been considerable time since any were summoned to Dol Guldur, and in that time, the Easterling Coalition had grown stronger. If not for the resistance, they would be ready to march West.

"I do not go for recognition," Vezely corrected him firmly. "I go for the Empire's interest, and to plea for our command of the dragon in Erebor." She pulled the map of Northern Kazkulud in front of them. "The magistrates foremost desire order to be restored in the outer provinces. I would not divert the hunt, nor place command under fangs less sharp. And if our Empire cannot secure itself, no honor will be given to either of us."

The minor praise and valid reasoning seemed to calm Öldür's contempt in being sidelined. He desired to stand before the Dark Lord and to be known; recognition he began to suspect could not be obtained as long as she remained General.

* * *

Vezely's hands were clasped behind her back as she casually strolled down the makeshift row of perfectly spaced canvas tents. The Easterlings had advanced into an organized militia, coming a long way since their humble beginning as divided tribes and khanates. While the magistrates, the chosen leaders of recognized states that surrounded the Sea of Rhun, yet quarreled internally over trade and territories, they did not disagree on the importance of their standing army, nor did they disregard the mandate set by the Dark Lord to build and maintain it.

"General." She had stopped before a group of elite warriors carousing near a fire. They all turned to her and placed a fist to their chest and tilted their head down in respect.

"At ease," she desired to relieve them of their duty that night. "I am looking for Cyane."

"She is in her tent, busy." Shakal, a peer of Cyane's replied unabashed, figuring the General would understand her cryptic response.

"Ah," Vezely raised her eyebrows along with her chin, realizing what she meant and also that Sandor, a lieutenant in the cavalry was also not with the group. "Gratitude." Before leaving she noticed a fresh wound upon the one man's face. "Teznik, that scar suits you," she remarked impressed.

Teznik laughed heartily, ducking his head at the compliment. Their General was not always serious.

Leaving the group to their festivities, she found Cyane's tent and without hesitation stepped inside the poorly lit space, calling out the presumed second occupant shortly after, "Lieutenant Sandor."

Not expecting an intrusion, and no less one by the General, the man sprang from the blankets of the makeshift bed to stand at attention, his face completely bewildered and his body completely unclothed. "General," he squeaked out, his hands strategically placed over his nether regions.

"Captain Cyane is on duty. Get out," Vezely ordered, uninterested in his embarrassment. Though she would provide him some privacy to gather his belongings by walking over to the other side of the tent where upon a perch sat a black tailed falcon, as all contingents kept them as messenger birds. Cyane was the falcon's keeper.

Reclining on her side, the young Captain propped her chin up on her fist, looking at her lover's backside in amusement as he scurried to retrieve his clothes, hastily putting on his trousers and boots before going out into the cold sans covering his upper body.

Having fed the falcon a piece of saved meat, Vezely softly stroked its ruffled chest feathers with the back of her knuckles. "Still with Sandor?" she asked curiously after the man departed, watching the bird close its eyes in joy of her affection.

"He yet pleases," Cyane remarked assuredly, rising to put on her robe. "And what is so important that I cannot be pleased until morning?"

Turning to face her now covered companion, she asked pointedly, "How is your Westron fairing?"

"I have become conversant," Cyane returned skeptically. "Why?"

"You will be using it shortly." She handed her a scroll, upon which she had written the names of warriors to take on the expedition. "I need you to verify that the members of this company are fit, both in language ability and look. Teznik can be removed. His new scar is not suitable."

"Not suitable?" Cyane slowly repeated, having unrolled the scroll to look through the names as she spoke.

"We will travel undercover. I figured as spice traders from just east of the Iron Hills," she looked mildly amused by proposing this for elite warrior.

Cyane looked at her apprehensively. "Where exactly are we traveling to?"

"To Dol Guldur. We leave at dawn."

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**A/N: Comments are extra appreciated at this developmental stage. Thank you! :)**


	2. The Shadow of the Past

**Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the Past**

Only eight warriors were selected to journey to Dol Guldur, since a group any larger might attract unwanted attention. All, however, were elites. The Easterling Empire had instituted universal military service with the registration of each household. These armies were instrumental in first expanding their territories and now maintaining order across the provinces. Those conscripted were forced to serve for five years, while others who had the desire and were deemed fit, continued their service in the hopes of becoming officers and leading their own contingents.

Cyane's father, Kor, was an officer; a trusted second in command who served under Vezely during some intense territorial expansion campaigns. A debilitating injury left him limp and ended his active service. He was relegated to a position at the headquarters, much to his disgruntlement. But this discharge also allowed him to start a family since active officers were forbidden to marry or carry children; terminations of pregnancies were not uncommon among female officers. For any family in the Easterling Empire, to have a child chosen as a squire for a commanding officer was considered a great honor. Vezely was impressed upon first meeting his daughter at age four. She was outspoken, but inquisitive just like her father. The child's apprenticeship was a privilege but it also constantly tasked her with greater responsibilities - being entrusted to choose the seven others to accompany the General westward now being one of them.

Traveling to Dol Guldur, the command post of the One, was akin to making a pilgrimage to a holy site. Cyane had to decide who was worthy along with keeping in mind the two parameters the General gave her - the ability to speak Westron fluently and to look the part of a simple merchant. The seven she chose all had a number of years of experience serving under the General, so they were accustomed to her methods of operation. She only hoped she did not make a mistake including Sandor, her current lover.

"All is ready General," Cyane dutifully announced at the tent's opening, hoping to prompt an end to her meeting with Öldür, the second in command. The young Captain knew there was some tension between the two leaders; she could tell by Vezely's habitual unspoken frustration after they held council. There was a growing faction among Easterlings who believed one of their own race should lead their main armies westward. And as the war neared, Öldür began to curry more favor among the magistrates who headed the empire.

"Good," Vezely acknowledged, concluding her remarks as she turned to exit the tent. A brief glance provided Cyane her gratitude for interrupting. "As we agreed, continue north," she reiterated as Öldür followed behind her, "I will send word of our master's desires, _if _they include you..."

The company was already seated upon their horses; black steeds now stripped of the Coalition's accoutrements. The soldiers had also packed away their golden armor to look less like militia and more like ordinary merchants. All swiped garments from prisoners; motley colored cloaks, long coats, and furs to wear over their militia garb which consisted of loose trouser and tunics. Their weapons, scimitars and axes, remained, for even merchants would not travel the road unarmed during this age.

Vezely had already tied a black headband around her forehead to cover her elven ears. Her dark hair, which was bluntly cut just below her chin, was not quite thick enough on the sides to fully cover their pointed tips. An elf leading a company of the race of men, merchants or not, would be enough to attract unwanted attention. There were only a few times when she was reminded of her foreign blood - one was when she needed to conceal her identity, the other was witnessing the death of lifelong acquaintances by way of old age.

They departed westward out of the decimated valley while a band of women and children chained together by irons were being led south to the Sea of Rhun; to be sold at port to Harad slavers. The scent of burnt wood and flesh mixed with the dampness of the morning dew was not unknown to the company, though the route was. It was an unfavorable trajectory and Vezely's thoughts weighed heavily on who or what they might encounter.

_Woodmen. Skin changers. Orcs. Woodelves._

Dol Guldur was located on the southern borders of Mirkwood Forest. In the past, Easterling companies would only travel there from the southeast, avoiding those dense woodlands for the ease of passing unhindered through the emptier flatlands of Rhovanion. However, they were currently located in Northern Logathavuld, far above the Sea of Rhun. The campaigns against the resistance already put her a week behind schedule, and the quickest route would require cutting through Mirkwood Forest to the Western side. She was not pleased with having to do this, knowing there would be elves patrolling their borders, Woodmen on the western edge, and possibly skin changers, if the orcs had not decimated them as they planned to. She had no experience of the northern forest's topography, only hearsay and maps that defined its rivers, roads, and the Elvenking's borders. It had been over a half a century since she ventured to Dol Guldur and her maps were just as old; she did not know if borders had shifted or if the forests had become more debauched from their Master's sorcery. She could not even ensure her own men's safety against the orcs and spiders that now roamed those lands.

However, the magistrates had arranged for her to meet the orc general, Azog the Defiler, near his lair in the Mountains of Mirkwood. She was acquainted with both him and his son, Bolg, and part of this mission required reaffirming those relations in preparation for the future war. Orcs were unpleasant creatures. Despite sharing enemies and being beholden to the same master, maintaining diplomatic relations with them required certain tact. It was an unsavory alliance, but their numbers were substantial and easily amassed when needed for battle.

For the ease of their horses and swiftness of the route, they took the common trade road, which if they stayed on it long enough would take them directly to the Old Forest Road that lay 40 miles south of the Mountains of Mirkwood. There was still trade among Rhun and the West, though it had slowed significantly over the years. The downfall of Erebor and the destruction of Dale by the dragon Smaug left the region around the Lonely Mountain parse of profit for most traders to even bother to continue pushing their wares. Places such as the Iron Hills were better suited. Dorwinion, a secluded region west of the Sea of Rhun, continued to export their heady wine with the region, however.

One week in and their route had appeared all but abandoned. But the closer they got to the forest the less likely their solitude would last.

..."Well well boys, what do we have here?" A broad shouldered, unsavory character with a thick black beard and bald scalp sauntered onto the pathway several meters in front of their soon to be halted horses. He was joined by fifteen brute-looking companions, all carrying some form of crudely forged weaponry. "Seems we found ourselves a group of merchants. It's our lucky day," he confirmed loud and smug, addressing both his band and the travelers in front of them.

Vezely slowly raised her palm, a simple gesture that halted her company and stilled their tongues; she would let the ruffian speak his peace before deciding her group's actions.

Stepping forward and swinging his spiked club to rest upon his shoulder, the man quickly laid out their purpose. "You see, you have stumbled upon our road and we suffer none to pass unless you pay the toll," he declared, seemingly proud of his ownership. "You!" He pointed his club's end to the man next to Vezely, Tros, assuming him the group's leader. "Have your company empty their pockets and then we will decide if you can pass."

Tros shifted his eyes to Vezely briefly; long enough to have her communicate her leeway to engage them properly.

"We will do no such thing," Tros declared, channeling the words he knew were expected of elite warriors, regardless of being undercover.

The ruffian laughed heartily along with his fellow companions before rephrasing his words, "Perhaps you do not understand. If you do not pay, we will kill you, take your goods, and fuck your women."

Cyane exchanged a look of disgust with Shakal who sat on the horse next to her; both of the women's hands were itching to use their weapons.

"Are you the main leader of this group?" Vezely spoke up, her calm voice removing the man's stern glare from Tros.

"Why? Are you looking to impress him?" The man scoffed as he inspected her, finding himself intrigued by what he saw - the pale skinned, bright eyed woman appeared regal, hooded and cloaked in moss green velvet with white fox furs draped around her shoulders. He would take her as his own if this meeting turned south, he thought.

Noting his gaze held lust, Vezely smirked and edged her horse towards him. "Perhaps," her tone shifted to one of flirtation and her eyes did not leave his.

The man straightened his posture and puffed out his chest; he would lower his club as she neared by. "Aye, the leader is I," he confessed, "What is it to you, lass?"

"Nothing," she confirmed after stopping her horse to the right of him, inspecting his dirty face and noting he had replaced a front tooth with a gold false one. Her searching gaze would leave him unaware that her hand reached for the sai that sat in her right boot's holster. "I just want the pleasure of taking your life," she said as the sai seemed to magically appear lodged in his chest with the speed at which she threw it. She did not need to call the command, for her company along with her, had released their weapons from their sheaths even before the man's knees had buckled beneath him.

It was a massacre. Despite the band having twice their numbers, their crude weapons and crass skill were no match for seasoned warriors upon horses.

"Search them for anything of value," she would order after, having herself jumped from her horse to kneel beside the leader who lay mere moments from death. "Who is fucked now?" She mused providing him a smug smile when his shocked eyes wandered to hers; it was as if she aimed below his heart just for the pleasure of asking that question. Rather than pull her sai directly out, she drove the blade up one more inch to finish him.

Meanwhile her soldiers were collecting pouches of gold coins, jewels, and jewelry among their kills. Sandor, Cyane's lover, found a long gold necklace and presented it to her. "A merchant's wife should be well adorned with precious metals, don't you think?" He joked.

"Ha!" Cyane grabbed the necklace from his outstretched hand and placed it around her neck, "I prefer gold armor to necklaces."

"And you look as good in both," Sandor whispered in her ear, exchanging a flirtatious smile before he went to finish his rounds of easy pick pocketing; a comment that cause heat to rush to her cheeks.

Vezely found a small pouch of gold coins inside the leader's coat pocket, along with a piece of parchment. Unfolding the abused scrap, she find Black Speech scribbled upon one side.

"Find something of interest?" Tros asked aside her, looking upon the script from above.

Vezely took a moment to consider its meaning, standing and turning to Tros before replying, "There is a price on the head of Thorin Oakenshield."

"Durin's line?" Tros questioned equally puzzled.

"Heir to the throne of Durin. I wonder if there is renewed interest in Erebor," she pondered darkly, folding and placing the parchment within her tunic pocket. "We will know more after meeting with General Azog," she attempted to settle her own confusion, still not knowing fully why their Master summoned her.

Before continuing to her horse, she turned back on the dead leader. "Ah, almost forgot." She would use the pummel of her sai to knock his gold tooth out.

* * *

"...I heard she materialized out of the Master's sorcery," Sandor stated to the group, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the fire they huddled next to. He hoped to bring some intrigue into the conversation as all pondered what they would see at Dol Guldur.

"She was not made from sorcery," Cyane scoffed, hoping to impart truth to the rampant rumor. She was often quick to defend her mentor, forgetting that she was one of only a few who were privy to seeing a different side of the General.

Despite her distance from the group, Vezely overheard their chatter; a curse of keen hearing and the ease of sound traveling during foggy nights. Her origins was a common subject of curiosity among her troops, and one which was also a mystery to her. All she knew was that she was reborn at Dol Guldur. Memories of what came before in her life did not exist and she did not spend her days dwelling on their absence. It was fair to assume her origins lie in Mirkwood or Lorien, for they were the elf colonies located closest to the Master's stronghold; where she was gifted to the Balchoth khan six hundred years ago. She was a young child then, not yet close to a decade old. And being young, she quickly acclimated to Easterling life. In Rhun she found herself without want or need, with the best tutors and trainers, and the support of the khan's family. Her elvish blood gave her keen eyesight and hearing, light feet, a strong body, and longevity, but it was her culture that defined her. She would not think otherwise. Often she wished her origins were as the rumors that Sandor spoke; that she was begotten of sorcery rather than of her sworn enemy.

..."You can rest," Cyane approached the General's side, hoping to give her a long overdue break in her watch.

"I am in need of less sleep," she crossed her arms, and stayed her gaze. Her eyes were not ready to move from the horizon, where the stars which always held her attention seemed to touch the blackness of the mountains beneath them.

"Sleep perhaps, but not rest. Even a general would need that after how far we rode today," Cyane countered assuredly.

"And we will travel just as far tomorrow," she nodded, knowing she spoke the truth.

"We should reach the forest's edge before nightfall then," Cyane realized. Her fingers moved to fidget with the gold necklace and upon noting the clasp's displacement, she thread it back behind her neck. Noting Vezely's attention to the gesture, she hastily defended wearing the gift Sandor gave her, betraying her own troubled thoughts. "I know what you are thinking. I am not foolish enough to fall in love." She crossed her arms in a style that mimicked her leader.

Vezely removed her gaze, finding herself bemused by the unintentional discomfort it brought her. "I do not think otherwise."

"Good," Cyane confirmed equally blunt, trying to readjust her own thoughts on the subject as she shrugged her shoulders back.

Vezely realized by Cyane's blurb and current shifting that she was desiring advice, though she knew not the words to ask for it. Having watched her grow from youth, she knew Cyane well enough to read these gestures. Though Vezely admittedly found herself far removed from the subject of lovers, for as general, she no longer had time or interest in it. "You are young," she started slowly, "And your rank is yet low. Share your bed plenty before such frivolity becomes a burden, or a hindrance to responsibility."

Cyane took a deep breath through her nostrils, accepting with hope that her current feelings for Sandor were not problematic nor would become so. Nor was Vezely concerned, knowing Cyane was level headed and dedicated to her trade, or at least that is how she raised her. She desired great things for the young adult, believing her capable of someday holding the position now occupied by Öldür.

Vezely believed leaders should put their men before their desires. She admittedly had grown overly cautious through the years; her people's defeat at the hands of Rohan and Gondor leaving a deep scar in her psyche. She would not go to war against the Western infidels unless they were truly ready and the outcome assured. Even if the Master commanded her to march troops within the year, she would plead against it - they cannot fight a war abroad when they could not keep their own borders under control. Cyane also understood this, while Öldür, she was not so certain.

* * *

"Tauriel," Legolas found the young Captain of the Woodland Guard seated upon an upper branch of a great tree, her gaze fixed on the stars that the clearing in the foliage allowed her. "You are thinking of the past," he acknowledged carefully.

"As I will every year this day comes to pass," she confirmed softly, providing him a brief smile as he quietly took a seat next to her.

Legolas queried whether he should have left her to her thoughts that night, but he desired to bring her comfort if he could and lend an ear if she desired to talk. Over six hundred years ago, Tauriel's parents along with a small colony of elves on the southern borders of their kingdom were murdered by orcs. During that one day in early spring, the bright world she knew changed. As sole survivor, she would be brought under the protection of King Thranduil, who would raise her as his own, but it was a privilege she wished was not so.

"I was remembering my friend," Tauriel revealed a moment later, for not all her thoughts that night brought her sadness, "And the laughter we shared."

"You speak of the daughter of Lord Eluréd," he knew whom she spoke, for there was only one other child connected to the tragedy.

"Bellethiel," Tauriel reminded him of her friend's name. Many now only referred to the child by her famous lineage, making Tauriel start to believe that her true name was forgotten to all but herself.

Among the known causalities were the parents of Bellethiel, Eluréd, and his Sindarin wife, Rovian. Eluréd held the same respected lineage as Lord Elrond. The mother of Elrond, Elwing, also had two twin brothers, one was Eluréd. They were the children of Dior and Nimloth, from the line of King Thingol and Melian the Maiar, and of Beren and Luthien. After the sacking of Doriath in the First Age, Elwing and Eluréd survived. He became a cherished friend of Thranduil, having fought alongside him in many battles, including the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. He would later become a trusted member of his court and one Thranduil would often turn to for council. Eluréd was a great lord, but one who did not desire leadership of his own realm since his ancestors had already suffered much when in power. Instead, he preferred a simple life in Greenwood the Great, as Mirkwood was called before Shadow fell upon it. He was protector of a small colony on the southern borders of the forest, where Tauriel's parents also lived. Both couples would be blessed with daughters within a year of each other. The girls inevitably became close friends.

"We did everything together, as if sisters," Tauriel added slowly still in pleasant thought. _Yes, as sisters_, she considered further, taking in a deep breath as if desiring the air to dilute the sudden discomfort of the memories from that day. "It was Bellethiel who hid me during the raid," she confessed, having not told anyone before. "She pushed me underneath a bush for I could not move my legs anymore as fear overtook me. She told me to be quiet and to have courage, and then left to find herself a place to hide. There was not enough room for two," she looked down; the thoughts noticeably pained her. "But they found her, and even now I can still hear her scream."

Legolas placed a hand gently on her shoulder. He did not know this exchange occurred or that Tauriel still carried some guilt because of it. Though he remembered quite clearly his father calling a search party, having himself led the Woodland Guard who tracked the orcs as they departed their lands south. They searched everywhere but found no sign of the missing child. All assumed she was killed, and her body taken by wargs.

"She is beyond the sea, where our people go," Legolas reassured his companion, "There it is forever green and no darkness can find her."

Thoughts of Valinor often brought Tauriel comfort, especially at times when she longed to see her parents again. Though this tragic moment set her on her path and instilled in her a drive that despite her youth would see her rise quickly to Captain of the Guard. She dedicated her life to protecting her kin against the Shadow that continued to fall on their forest. Never again would her feet freeze in terror, she told herself. She would have courage, like Bellethiel told her to.

"If ever I shall meet your friend," Legolas considered, "Then I shall thank her for saving you." Legolas could not imagine the past half century without Tauriel in it and such a thought led him to reconsider what she truly meant to him.

* * *

**A/N: Glad you are enjoying this. Lots of history and exposition in this chapter. Reviews/thoughts very much appreciated. Thank you! :)**


	3. The Enchanted River

**Chapter 3 - The Enchanted River**

"Be on your guard," Vezely advised her company while halted at the edge of Mirkwood. "The orcs may be expecting us, but we cannot expect them to greet us rather than attack us."

All had removed their heavy cloaks, overcoats, and furs. Being farther south, the weather was warmer. But more so, they were less concerned about encountering anything other than orcs on this part of the journey. The Mountains of Mirkwood lay outside the Woodland Realm's borders. Nor was the range home to any Woodmen, whose homesteads were on the far Western edge of the forest. It was also preferable to appear as warriors, dressed in their black trousers and tunics, carrying their scimitars and axes, so that the orcs would not mistake them for misguided travelers and thus, easy prey.

They would follow the river that diverged northwest from the River Running, since its waters led straight into the mountain passes where the orcs had their lair. Luckily there was enough of a clearing along the river's banks to trek their horses instead of abandoning them and moving by foot.

_Unease. _The company felt restless the further in they traveled. Dense woodlands were not natural dwelling places of Easterlings. Similar locations within their borders were brewing grounds of superstition. Spirits lived within them, many cults would say, and their magic is terrible and best avoided. Most of the "white fiends," as Easterlings called the race of elves, had migrated from their lands long ago. If any remained, they lived scattered and secluded within these mysterious forests and their safety depended on the outside world's superstitious fear.

Only once did Vezely encounter members of her own race. During an expansion campaign where instead of leading her troops into the forests, she burnt it to the ground. They used a mixture of oil and tar, so the fire could not easily be stopped. The inhabitants were either smoked out into her army's line of fire or perished in the flames. The same strategy would be used to eradicate Mirkwood and Lothlorien's elvish populations once the war in the north came to pass.

..."What sorcery is this?" Tros inquired of the river's blackness, believing the General had knowledge they did not. Its current was fast and strong, making its darkness even more of mystery since it was far from stagnate.

"Stay away from the edge," she cautioned them steadily, not knowing why it appeared so, but holding the same suspicion.

The farther they traveled into the mountains, the higher their path rose above the river. It was deadly quiet, all save the rushing of the waters below and Cyane's black tailed falcon squawking in the cage behind her. The Captain decided to release the bird rather than have its noise cause anymore discomfort. It circled high above them, keeping a keen eye of their whereabouts; being trained to return upon its master's call.

Their horses slowly became more obstinate, requiring more heel taps to keep them moving. "Just a little farther," Vezely comforted them, sharing their unease. According to the map, the clearing where they would wait for their orc escort was not far.

A mountain snake, the only living creature they had seen since entering, crawled into the path of Cyane's horse, causing the animal to jerk and rear up its front legs. Despite a desperate attempt to stay in her saddle, Cyane lost grip of the reins and fell off the cliff face into the black waters several meters below.

"Cyane!" Sandor jumped from his horse, his eyes wide with fear.

Cyane's partner would have leapt in after her, but Vezely yelled at him, "Stop! Stay where you are!" Her eyes searched the waters below in equal fear, finding slight relief upon seeing Cyane's head bob above the dark brew a second later. She was yet conscious but the current had already taken her. "Continue to the clearing. I will send word from the sky upon our return."

Vezely willed her horse's hooves to move, furiously kicking its sides as her eyes kept watch on Cyane below. The young Captain attempted to keep her head above the wash, while her hands futilely tried to grasp anything that would stay her from the drift, but the river provided no options. The falcon followed them from above, as if knowing its keeper was in peril and desiring to aid in some way.

She lost track of the minutes that passed as she continued the chase, further unaware of how removed they now were from the company in the hills behind them. _Rocks._ The flat lands gave way to a bevy of rocks, disallowing her horse from continuing its path. But she would not give up. Never before had Vezely's feet moved so assuredly, as she jumped the rocks and continued on the path to catch up to her apprentice.

In her last attempt, Cyane's searching hands found a branch of a dilapidated tree that jutted into the stream's current. She held onto it tightly, though without the strength to pull herself ashore. Sensing her grip would soon give way, Vezely leapt over the bank into the river next to her, one hand gripping the same branch and the other around Cyane's waist, holding onto her before she let go.

She pulled them both onto the riverbed, but Cyane was unconscious. "Cyane! Look at me Cyane!" Her demands held an uncommon tone of fear. "Wake up!" She jostled her roughly, angry at herself for not reaching her in time. "Wake up!"

With a cough, water released from Cyane's lungs, and she gasped for air. Vezely also inhaled deeply, not realizing she had held her breath. "You had me worried there, child," Vezely scolded her as if her mother, and at the same time internally scolded herself for holding such deep concern. Such emotions were unbecoming for a servant of the Dark Lord, and undermined a general's need to consider all her soldiers equals. She realized further in that moment that Cyane meant too much to her.

Amid her much needed breaths, Cyane asked confused, "What happened?" Her mind was not able to piece together her body's pains or the reason why she was soaking wet. "Where are we?"

Vezely pushed her bangs aside and turned her face, inspecting her scalp for signs of injury. "Your horse threw you and you fell into the river," she explained but Cyane showed no recollection.

"River? There are no rivers in Azdug," she slowly returned. Azdug was the name of the region they were traveling through one week after they departed Northern Logathavuld for Mirkwood.

"We are not in Azdug, Cyane, we are already West, in Mirkwood. Three weeks past," Vezely relayed carefully. Gauging by continued disbelief in Cyane's eyes, she realized, "You do not remember." _Sorcery._ She suspected the river's black waters were as Tros remarked. Nothing could be done, however, and it was more important for them to return to the group. "We are not safe here. Can you walk?"

Cyane would set aside the weeks gone from her memory and put her mind to the moment. She was a soldier, capable of powering through the harshest conditions and direst of injuries to do as commanded. If the General needed her to walk, she would walk.

The falcon swooped down to perch on a nearby branch and Vezely provided it a double clasp and release of one fist; a gesture to return to the rest of the company as news that they would soon follow.

She aided Cyane to her feet and assisted her first steps, making sure she was steady enough to walk. Cyane was strong; she did not need any aid.

They had only walked a meter before a pang of bowstrings being pulled back were heard behind them, ceasing their steps. Judging by the softness of the footsteps, it was not orcs that were targeting them. _Elves. _A company of the Thranduil's Woodland Guard were stationed on the outer borders of their realm, their keen ears picking up on the horse's hooves and its heavy breathing baring down the banks of the Enchanted River. This river flowed directly into the Forest River which cut through their lands, right next to and through their king's underground stronghold. It was unusual for such a beast to wander those forests, let alone to run through them so wildly. They first feared for the animal's sanity, expecting it riderless and in need of calming. For just as it was uncommon for a horse to venture into Mirkwood, it was also rare for travelers to be foolish enough to brave its dangers.

Their elven eyes then spotted its skilled rider, appearing as determined as the animal in its task. They did not notice the woman in the river until the rider leapt from her saddle, her feet swiftly carrying her across the rocky barrier as quick as the horse carried her before. Many noted her agility and thought the way she jumped the bank into the river next to her companion and the ease in which she pulled them ashore seemed inhuman. Though the Captain of the Woodland Guard feared they would soon need to rescue both of them from the current.

This was not the case, however, and they continued their approach with added caution. As the two conversed, none, not even the son of King Thranduil, understood their coarse language. Equally foreign was their garb and hairstyle; trousers and hair bluntly cut at the shoulders. That they were both armed with long curved swords was a further anomaly from women who occupied the lands around them. But it was the falcon and the gesture the one shared with it that prompted their intervention. They were not lone wanderers in their forests; there were others.

Vezely moved her hand to the hilt of her scimitar, the other she kept around Cyane's shoulders. "My friend is hurt," she called to them clearly in Westron, trying to impart in her tone a sense of desperation. She peered to the side, her eyes trying to catch a glimpse of her would-be attackers. "We have become separated from our company. We seek only to return."

The strong voice of a woman sounded; a command that resulted in the release of bowstrings and the continued patter of light feet. Despite their foreignness, Tauriel perceived them as two women removed from the protection of their company, and one who was perhaps in need of their aid. She thus held less suspicion than the prince, who had not loosened the grip on his bow.

Before pivoting towards them, Vezely whispered to Cyane in their tongue, "My horse is not far from here. If things go foul, take it south to the mountainside." Her mind considered their options. She would not be taken by these elves, she thought darkly.

The figures she beheld were similar to her in stature; tall and svelte. They were also fair of skin, but with long, straight shining locks of different hues gracing each of their heads. But it was not unkempt as long hair often appeared to Easterlings when seen on Westerners, worn aside scraggly beards. Instead, pieces of it were intricately braided and pulled back and away from their clean shaven faces. Their raiment were the colors of the forest, browns and greens, and silver and bronze armor that appeared as small, stylized leaves draped down over their shoulders. There were twenty by first count and all carried bows and full quivers attached to their backs. The thought of dodging arrows caused both Vezely and Cyane to grit their teeth.

Hoping to impart pity rather than provocation, Vezely kept her arm around Cyane pretending to support her, while her voice and words continue to feign desperation. "My friend fell into the river several miles south of here, she cannot remember anything." Cyane played along, trying to appear more distraught than she was.

"This river is enchanted." An elleth whose hair was exceptionally long and red responded. Vezely realized it was the same voice that commanded the loosening of bow strings just prior. "All who fall into its depths or drink its waters suffer loss of memory," she explained coming closer.

Suddenly Vezely grew aware of the water soaking through her own clothes, and what she perceived as the intactness of her memory. _Overlook it, and they will to, _she thought before continuing, hoping that her headband was still properly covering her ear tips_._ "Is there nothing that can be done?"

Tauriel shook her head slowly side to side. "But your friend should consider herself lucky, for the river this one flows into is more dangerous with currents twice as strong."

Vezely exchanged a consolidating look with Cyane, for at least they found an answer to that question.

Tauriel's niceties made Legolas grow impatient. The two women had so far received information from them, but provided none in return. So he intervened. "And now you will tell us who you are, and why you are in our lands."

Vezely finally acknowledged the guard who stood next to the red haired one. His voice was clear and assertive as the other, but noticeably more unfriendly. His hair reminded her of the blinding afternoon sun, and his eyes were the color of a perfect sky on the plains of her homeland. He appeared as dangerous as he was beautiful, she thought, as their gaze uncomfortably locked. She would evade his question with another, "Have we crossed your borders?"

"You have," he returned sternly, finding discomfort in the subtle defiance she hid behind her gaze. Her eyes were thinly outlined in black, making the blue grey more piercing. Why she unsettled him, he knew not.

"That was not our intent," she explained forthrightly, tilting her chin up but holding his narrowed eyes in hers, "We are simple merchants seeking new prospects to the lands west of here. We did not know the perils of our path."

"You are heavily armed for simple merchants," he remarked doubtful, his eyes falling to her sword and the blades hinged to the sides of her boots before returning to her face.

"As all who travel the roads in this age are," Vezely returned solidly, trying to hide her annoyance. Believing the elleth more malleable, she directed her final plea to her, "If you would allow us leave, we will not stay in your borders."

"We will provide escort," Tauriel answered, thinking Legolas's suspicion unnecessary and rather typical of his stature. King Thranduil's long-running isolationist policy had often clouded their perception of all who lived outside their borders, even other elves. There was no reason to believe their intent was anything other than to pass through these lands, and that entering their borders was an unfortunate mishap.

"That is not necessary. My horse is nearby, and the path clear enough," Vezely replied, trying to sound humbled by the offer.

"We insist. Orcs roam our borders. Even armed merchants are in peril," she responded more firm in her decision, turning immediately after to command half of the guard to return to their stations, since not all were needed for escort. Legolas's eyes were yet narrowed upon her.

Having no choice, Vezely ducked her head slightly, "Gratitude, and our apologies for your time." She would return the blonde elf's cold gaze momentarily. His suspicion would undoubtedly remain, she thought, and unfortunately he would also as one of their escort.

..."Ten remain," Cyane whispered to Vezely as they walked. "We can fight them," strength apparent in her voice.

"No, we must get back to the others first..."

..."She is lying," Legolas whispered to Tauriel.

Tauriel accepted his concern, but made her own known, "Lie or not, it is better to be assured of their passage from our lands..."

Vezely's black horse awaited her master's return. She would prompt Cyane into its saddle, after unrolling her moss green velvet cloak from its back, and draping it over her shoulders. Cyane was shivering from being soaked through. "Remember my words," she whispered to her in the handoff, "Follow the river if need be." Cyane held her tongue but was not pleased with being given orders to retreat, regardless of the odds being against them. Vezely took the horse's reins, keeping her pace in front of the guards as her mind considered how to mitigate the impending meeting with her men.

Legolas continued to observe the strange woman as they walked; a fact noted by Tauriel who remained aside him. She was tall and had the figure and fair face of an elleth, but moved as one of the race of men and any beauty she held was marred. Her dark hair was shorter in the back and on the base of her neck were tattoos in black script not of this land. Only those who men considered criminals or prostitutes, or worse, dwarves inked their bodies as such. Both women wore several simple gold rings upon their fingers and knuckles, and gold cuffs and piercings ran down the length of their earlobes; even though hers were covered by a black headband. Only the moss green cloak, now draped over the shoulders of the younger one, appeared befitting of a merchant.

Cyane noticed the golden-haired elf's interest in the General, and she wondered if he could see through her disguise. _Did elves have such powers?_ She often forgot the General was an elf or that she held kin in the lands of their enemy; that they were their enemy. If they could fight as the General, she worried what the return to the rest of the company would harbinger. Would they be able to continue this charade? The knot in the pit of her stomach grew as she struggled to get warm.

It was not often that Tauriel was provided an opportunity to talk to strangers and learn about the lands far from her homeland. She decided to spark a conversation with them, asking them curiously after catching up beside the horse, "Your language is not known to us. Where did you say you were from?"

"We didn't," Vezely returned bluntly keeping her eyes forward. She was not interested in small talk, but understood the need to humor them. "But it is a regional dialect, just east of the Iron Hills."

"That is far from here..."

Vezely heard the elleth speaking, but could not piece together the words' meaning as her mind drifted elsewhere, but where she did not know. Sunshine streaming through a canopy of trees overtook her eyesight and the soothing sound of a babbling brook drowned out all others, except for the cascading giggle of two children_. "Gwestog?"_ (Promise?) A girl's voice asked. _"Gwestog."_ Another responded as warm as the sunshine that surrounded her.

It was Sindarin. Vezely could understand the basics of this Elvish language, having studied all the languages of friend and foe through her years. Though books made it sound no more familiar to her.

Cyane noted Vezely's silence and responded on her behalf, "Aye, it is far..."

Cyane's voice returned Vezely's wandering thoughts. She blinked back to reality, finding she had momentarily stalled her steps with the horse halting behind her. Luckily Cyane had successfully turned the conversation and Tauriel's attention, as the elleth greeted the friendlier voice of the younger woman who began describing the region she was actually born in.

Legolas had not overlooked it, however. Something was off about her, but he could not piece together what. It did not help that they had just crossed outside the borders of their kingdom. Despite his apprehension, that he did not openly go against Tauriel's decision to do this also troubled him greatly. He should not let his fondness for her cloud his judgment, he thought admonishingly. His father would not be pleased and he hoped not needing to divulge that this escort required such an infraction.

When they reached the mountain pass, they would find the company's horses strangely abandoned. Vezely's heart beat quicker, concerned with what her men were planning. Cyane's hand grasped the hilt of her scimitar, since the gesture could be hidden under the green cloak she yet wore.

The assault started without command. The seven warriors sprang from their hiding places, weapons in hand, startling the elves who were quick to pull arrows from their quivers. Not desiring this confrontation, Vezely wacked her hand against her horse's hind quarters, sending it and Cyane from the fight and the possible perils of what she would do in order to stop it.

"Enough!" She yelled in Easterling as command to her men, but also to garner attention of the elves who had already brought down one of them. Before Vezely's horse had even reacted to her smack, she had grabbed the elleth's red hair, pulling her back into a strong hold and pressing the cold blade of her sai against her neck.

"Put your weapons down, or her hair will not be the only thing that is red," Vezely warned the elves in Westron, while Tauriel found her strength unexpectedly matched.

While the elvish guards had lowered their bows, Legolas instead turned an arrow on her. "Release her," he spoke through gritted teeth and deadly glare, finding disbelief when Tauriel returned his gaze and silently communicated that she could not break the hold.

"That is not how it works," Vezely smirked at his brazenness, while tightening her grip. "Here me out. We both desire the same thing, for all to walk out of here alive and I am willing to let that happen."

"You underestimate my guards," Legolas warned, believing she was boasting of her men's prowess.

"On the contrary. This would not be necessary if I did," Vezely explained steadily, considering her options if he did not accept. _Shoot your arrow and you will kill your own_, she thought amused, preparing to move if his answer was negative.

Shot from their side, a long black arrow prompted release of Vezely's grasp. It flew right in between them, and Tauriel rolled swiftly forward onto her feet, releasing her dual fighting knives. She desired to retaliate the offense of her prior captor but a fouler enemy had ascended upon all of them. Over thirty orcs ran from the mountain pass; their crudely forged iron weapons already swinging at the elves who stood directly in their path.

Instead of Tauriel's blades, Vezely would need to dodge the arrow released from Legolas's bow. He was not as easily swayed from forgetting her prior deed. He then swung his bow at her, but she sidestepped and grasped the upper limb pulling it and him towards her. She swung the hilt of her sai into the side of his face. But she had no time to mingle for the benefit of his rage, so she sent him back with a kick to the chest allowing her room to call out in crude orcish right after, "_Uruk,_ _Maugoth Vezely-izg. Choom Ul'bah_!" (Orcs, I am General Vezely. Destroy the elves!)

Bolg, the son of Azog the Defiler, stood nearby leading the attack. He had been expecting the Easterlings, but not Woodelves to be accompanying them. The tall orc would confirm her commands with his own, adding precision to his troops assault as Vezely called her own men to retreat to their horses.

His mind was set on this self-proclaimed 'Generel Vezely,' but Legolas would find three orcs step between them, as if offering her protection, and she slipped from his grasp.

Vezely jumped upon Cyane's horse, counting each of her company as they crossed behind her. One, Enramul, lay dead; a victim of the Woodland Guard and their arrows.

"Tros, throw me your dagger," she commanded, and he swiftly tossed the weapon into her hand. With precision, Vezely threw it fast and hard into the back of an elf closest to her, sending him down. _Now we are even_, she thought, taking the elf's life for that of Enramul.

Legolas saw his fellow guard fall and turned to see the one who threw the dirty blade into his back. He momentarily locked eyes with the woman, and she provided him a sinister smile that chilled him to the bone. Unfortunately, no arrows were left in his quiver as she took off with her men; the few surviving orcs soon to follow.

* * *

**A/N: The plot thickens. Thank you so much for the reviews. All your thoughts are really helpful while I develop this. **

**mngirl: Not sure about a love triangle, we will see how it pans out. What do others think? Is this an impossible love story?**


	4. Parallel Agitation

**Chapter 4 - Parallel Agitation**

The orcs led them out of the mountain pass and safely away from their elvish attackers, but Vezely did not provide gratitude or bow her head upon reaching the outside of their underground lair. Rather she quickly sought their commander, Azog, desiring to talk business with the pale orc and confirm their alliance before continuing her company's travel to Dol Guldur as swiftly as possible.

"Where is your father?" She asked Bolg sternly in Orchish as she marched confidently towards him, but her hand cautiously stayed upon the hilt of her scimitar.

"Gone," Bolg scowled as he dismounted his great warg. His forked iron club remained outstretched in his right hand. The foul beast bared its fangs, snarling and snapping as warning as she got closer.

Undeterred, Vezely hissed at the large beast, causing it to whimper and scuffle back in fear of her. She returned her narrowed gaze to Bolg. "Does this absence have anything to do with a dwarf by the name of Thorin Oakenshield?"

Bolg instantly sneered at the mention of the dwarf's name. "The head of Thorin Oakenshield is his to claim and by the will of the Master."

_The Master wills it? Curious._ She quickly pressed for details. "Vengeance I can understand, but why now? What fear is there in the line of Durin?"

"No fear of dwarf scum," he scoffed and spit to the side of her. "The Master provides answers. I do not." Bolg narrowed his eyes in overt disgust, as if she was the one who reeked of death. He cared not to be in the presence of an elf, regardless of their alliance or her estrangement from the rest of her kin.

Vezely was already in a foul mood from the altercation in Mirkwood, but being shunned by a orc worsened it. She desired answers so she could stand before the Dark Lord with fewer questions. Not that orcs were much for conversation, they loathed it, but at least Azog was slightly more competent than his son.

_Incompetence. I am surrounded by incompetence._

After ordering the company to take an hour's rest before continuing their route, she pulled Tros aside, "Tros, a word." She wanted to address what transpired in the mountain pass, since he was the one left in charge. "Your decision to assault was ill-advised," she chided, "Enramul is dead because of it. I will not strip you of rank, but consider this a warning."

Tros swallowed hard and he ducked his head low as his mind filled with rumors of the General killing her own soldiers for lesser offenses.

_Fear._ Vezely understood why her soldiers feared her. It was her invader past, the infamous fierceness of the Balchoth culture she was raised in, and the Dark Lord's favor. Fear served her well, for none dared question her authority. For the Easterlings, fear was power, and those feared were also respected.

As the Easterling Empire formed, it was natural that she take central command of its standing armies. The Dark Lord encouraged it and the magistrates did not question his desires or forgo the promise of western lands for their obedience. But as the decades passed and war had not been waged, younger generations questioned older regimes and shook up already shaky alliances between the provinces. While the descendents of the Balchoth were yet a powerful faction, and remained the greatest supporters of Vezely's command, others began calling for a redefinition of army leadership. They feared an uneven distribution of spoils once western lands were won.

Now more than ever was an opportune time for Vezely to be summoned to Dol Guldur; to remind the Empire of her worth and the Dark Lord's support of her command.

Leaving the group to enjoy the campfire's warmth and their meager rations, Vezely sought temporary solitude. She found a an overlook that provided a view of the dismal forest below and the night sky above. She hoped the latter could quell her anger. She would not openly admit that part of her was discomforted from the unexpected run-in with her estranged kin.

A brief moment, during her and Cyane's escort out of the forest, she felt as if her thoughts were not her own. The vision that overtook them yet played in her mind - the light she saw streaming through the canopy of trees, the sound of joyous laughter surrounding her, the childish words spoken in her enemies tongue as if it was her own, and a brief flash of a face of a smiling child with red hair and green eyes. _What sorcery put it there?_ She wondered uncomfortably, thinking again of the black river and how even now her clothes remained damp from its waters. She hoped it was an anomaly, even if the moment could not be erased from her mind...

* * *

"And what prey tell were you doing outside our borders?" Thranduil demanded to know of his son and Captain in private council, his voice on the verge of yelling.

The small company of Woodland Guard returned to the king's underground halls that evening disheveled, their quivers emptied of arrows, their blades blackened by orc blood, and their spirits broken as they carried the body of one of his guard. Legolas and Tauriel were a mix of emotion: sorrowful for the loss of a compatriot, troubled by the unexpected turn of events, but most of all angry over all that transpired.

Legolas took the initiative to provide the explanation, though he decided to be selective in details in order to avoid his father's admonishment. He spoke plainly, "Two women entered our lands from the south. One accidentally by way of the Enchanted River, the other in pursuit. We escorted them back to their company but were onset by a pack of orcs."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. Finding the terse explanation unsatisfactory, he pressed for further details. "The orcs?"

"Destroyed." Legolas declared, straightening his posture. Their guard easily took down all those who did not retreat with the group of Men.

"And this company?" Thranduil asked slowly, covertly observing them from the corner of his eye.

Before he spoke, Legolas briefly glanced uncomfortably at Tauriel who stood aside him. "They were allied with the orcs. We brought down one of theirs, and they," Legolas awkwardly paused his speech. The memory of the woman's sinister smile returned to him; the overt pleasure she showed throwing the dagger into the back of the guard and his friend, Anessen, and how he failed to stop her. With downcast eyes, he finished less assuredly, "They brought down one of ours."

Managing a subtle nod, Legolas prompted Tauriel to share the item they returned with to the king. Outstretched in the palm of her hands, the Captain presented a black sheathed scimitar. "The man we killed, my lord, was carrying this sword. The markings upon it, as with the language they spoke, are unknown to us."

Thranduil's upper lip curled slightly in mild disgust as he took the mannish weapon and unsheathed it to look upon the engravings. But rather than commenting, he abruptly shut it and returned it to the Captain, appearing disinterested in investigating further. Looking upon both of them, he reconfirmed his policy, "Anyone who crosses our borders, they are to be brought before me. No exceptions."

"Yes, my lord," both responded in tune.

When it appeared this was all the king would say concerning the matter, Tauriel persisted as other guards would not."And these men, my lord?"

"They are not our concern, nor are their dealings with the orcs. Your concern is with what happens within our borders," Thranduil told her sternly. Before she could speak again, he added slightly more kind, "Now, leave us. There are matters I need to discuss with my son."

Knowing it was not her place to press further, Tauriel swiftly repositioned the scimitar at her side. She provided Legolas a displeased glance before she left and his eyes followed her exit, but Thranduil's gaze remained on his son, yet observing him closely.

"What is it you are not telling me but that consumes your mind?" Thranduil entreated his son to speak freely, wondering of the caution of his speech and what halted his words just prior.

"The woman," Legolas confessed slowly, uncertainty apparent in his strong gaze, "The one who entered our borders in pursuit of the other, she was not what she seemed."

"You speak in riddles," Thranduil returned, finding his son's confusion curious.

"She had strength and agility that matched my own."

Thranduil cocked one eyebrow, realizing intrigued, "So you were not bested by an orc, but by a woman." He was not mocking his son, but noted his busted and bruised cheek upon arrival and assumed that his pride was also damaged.

Legolas diverted his gaze, annoyed by the sting the iron hilt of the woman's strange fighting knives dealt him. As the king's son, returning from an orc raid with such a visible injury was an embarrassment. But brushing aside the comment, he tried to add credence to why he found her peculiar. "She is also the one responsible for Anessen's death. She threw the knife into his back before retreating with the others. Father, the base of her neck bore similar markings as that sword, and she declared her name to the orc leader as _General _Vezely. Should we not be concerned that a general has an army?"

"An army of Men," he reminded him. "No, it is not our concern," he stated firmly. But the name unexpectedly gave him pause. He found it disconcerting that he had recollection of it, but in histories not connected to his own. Gauging his son needed an explanation to quell his unease, Thranduil provided one. "The script is from lands far east of here, of Men long estranged from their Western kin. And the name," he looked upon his son, "Is of those kingdoms also."

"Then she is of that people?" Legolas's eyes diverted in thought.

"Did she not appear as such?" Thranduil asked yet observing him closely.

Legolas did not respond, but only thought again about how her ears were covered under a black headband.

"This name," Thranduil continued steadily as what he knew resurfaced from the reservoirs of his mind. "It is spoken in the south among the people of Rohan. A warlord from Rhun by the name of Vezely led a terrible horde that destroyed the lands of Rhovanion half a millennium ago. The same warlord also killed their first king, Eorl the Young, several decades after. Their history speaks of a woman who was not one. Though men of those lands indulge such tales rather than acknowledge an invasion led by what they perceive as the weaker sex."

"And what do they say this warlord was?" Legolas asked slowly.

"A witch, a demon..."

"An elf?" Legolas interrupted.

"One who commanded the slaughter of women and children? We would not so quickly claim her as our own," he chided abruptly, hoping to nix any consideration of it from his son's mind. "Men are known to give their offspring the same names as their forbearers. That is a more sufficient explanation for this...woman. But," Thranduil decidedly changed the subject to his realm's protection, "We will change the number of guard stationed at the southern borders..."

Legolas would accept his father's judgment, having no reason to doubt him in these matters.

* * *

The fallen guard's body was respectfully laid upon the mourning stone in the middle of the great hall. He was cleansed and dressed in white linen robes and surrounded by delicate white flowers harvested from the forest floor. The wide cavern echoed with the soft sounds of lament - a song sung for a warrior and protector of the Woodland Realm.

Legolas placed a hand on the shoulder of Thalion, who stood near the stone silently mourning the passing of his brother. His eyelids were heavy and shoulders slumped over, making him appear short in stature despite being one of the tallest elves in the guard.

His friend's warm touch lifted his heavy eyes, but brought his troubled thoughts to his tongue. Turning towards Legolas, he engaged him quietly, "Is it true, that the strange woman threw the knife into his back?"

Legolas matched the sorrow in his eyes, for Anessen was a dear friend to him as well. He nodded once in affirmation, but moving his hand to his forearm, he confirmed steadily with a firm grasp, "He fought bravely against our attackers and he will be welcomed across the sea by your parents and our people."

Thalion did not respond but hung his head low again. He did not know the full parameters of what occurred outside their borders, only that his brother was taken down dishonorably by the same strange woman that he witnessed save another from the river's rage. The company had returned to face numerous questions from their fellow guard, but provided them unsatisfactory answers. All thought it was curious for Men to be allied with orcs, for women to be so well armed, and for one in particular to have both held hostage their Captain and to have injured their prince before taking down one of their own.

After paying his respects to his fallen comrade, Legolas sought out Tauriel to relay his father's wisdom. Tauriel expected such a courtesy, not because she was the Captain of the Guard but because of their longtime companionship. He found her pacing in her quarters with the scimitar yet firmly grasped at her side. He knew she was agitated and her mind was racing, as she often paced when in troubled thought.

Tauriel stalled her movement and brought her serious gaze to Legolas who stood at her doorway, which she left ajar in the hopes that he would visit her. "You knew the falsity of their words," she forewent a greeting and instead invited him to speak about his initial suspicion of the two women.

"I knew only that they were not simple merchants," he corrected her steadily, crossing his arms.

Her bright eyes engaged his as if ready to start an investigation. "Did your father provide answers to who they were?"

"Only that they are from farther east than they said," he stated, not desiring to indulge her troubled thoughts with what he considered unimportant information of Rohan and its past invaders.

"Why would a general from the far east be in collusion with the orcs from this region?" Tauriel pondered out loud as she started to pace the room again.

"It is now beyond our concern, Tauriel," Legolas reaffirmed his father's words, albeit more kindly in tone.

"Because it is beyond our borders?" Tauriel scoffed at the all too common trope of the king, "And if they return? What then?"

"They will not return. Do not let what happened weigh heavily on your mind. You should rest, the morning will quell our anger and bring peace," he uncrossed his arms and considered taking his leave, believing she needed time alone to quiet her thoughts.

"Peace?" She ignored his suggestion to rest. "Our forest has long been plagued by darkness, and it is getting worse. Orcs, spiders, and now evil men traveling far from their homeland. Why does it not cause greater concern? And this strange woman," she spoke in angered agitation, "Her hold on me, Legolas, her strength was not of the race of Men. She was an elf, she had to be."

"She was not an elf," Legolas returned firmly, having thought again about his prior suspicion and finding holes in his reasoning, "An elf would not be in command of Men or take such pleasure in the act of killing."

Tauriel tilted her head while listening to him, finding something curious, "Your eyes truly did not stray." Legolas shifted uncomfortably at the accusation that the woman had any hold on his gaze. "So you saw her take Anessen's life?"

"And I watched her hold the blade at your throat," Legolas replied concerned. His eyes dipped briefly to the small knick left upon her skin and his mind darkened with the thought of potentially losing her. "Something sinister lies deep within that woman, the likes of which is not seen in our kin."

Tauriel stood silent, desiring to trust his judgment, though something felt amiss. But instead of sharing these concerns, she instead provided a small nod.

"It is likely these Men will never cross our borders again, so we cannot harp on seeing justice prevail. Instead, it is best to learn from our mistakes," Legolas advised the younger elf encouragingly as if her teacher.

"You mean learn to be less trusting," Tauriel returned dryly, wishing her people did not need to separate themselves from the rest of the world.

"No, simply to be more wary of outsiders," Legolas smiled kindly, and reminding her of their scheduled rounds, he added, "Rest, I will see you upon the sun's rising."

Tauriel smiled back, "Until then." After Legolas left, Tauriel unsheathed the long curved sword, looking again at the markings down its length and remembering the markings on the strange woman's skin as she walked in front of her. _The far east, Rhun_. Tauriel realized she knew nothing of these lands or their people. _Who are you General Vezely_ and _what are you doing in these lands?_

Tauriel had a growing suspicion that much of what troubled Mirkwood stemmed from the old fortress of Dol Guldur, which was located south of their borders. She had secretly followed the migratory trail of the spiders and found it led to its gates. The Woodmen spoke of a human sorcerer occupying its ground, casting dark spells and stripping the forest of any life around it. Something in her heart told her it was more than that; something fouler, something worse. But often she felt as if she was the only one truly concerned...

* * *

"You should rest," Vezely told Cyane, who despite knowing the General's current irritated state, still unabashedly intruded on her solitude.

"I should, but my mind desires not to," she replied, her voice wavering slightly.

Vezely accepted her company with a brief nod, putting her ill-thoughts aside to ease her apprentice's troubles if she could. "Did Sandor and Shakal fill you in?" She asked, hoping they could provide her the details of the three weeks the river vanquished from her memory.

"Yes, but..." Cyane's thoughts were heavy with the weight of Enramul's death, "You should not have saved me."

Vezely crossed her arms, disliking her deprecation. "I could not risk you falling into enemy hands," she reasoned seemingly indifferent. But looking at her from the corner of her eye, she added sarcastically, "Besides your father would kill me if I allowed you to meet such an end."

"That he would." Cyane laughed. It was true of her father, Kor, who also had a unique friendship with the General. "Yet, Enramul..."

"That is not your fault," Vezely interrupted her sternly. Hoping to move her past this guilt, she advised on a more serious matter, "But that horse of yours. You should not ride him into battle."

Cyane nodded with a small smile on her face, internalizing her advice and her words, knowing she would never lie to her. "Is that where we are headed? Battle?" Cyane and the others in the company wondered if she was able to procure any information from the orc's leader.

"I am uncertain," Vezely confessed; not hiding her annoyance in her narrowed gaze. "It appears the pale orc is hunting the heir of Durin and that our Master desires that his vengeance be fulfilled. Perhaps interest in Erebor extends beyond our own."

"If the seven dwarf clans unite, they would march on the mountain," Cyane slowly pondered.

"If they are foolish enough to," Vezely returned dryly.

"The dragon would destroy them," Cyane scoffed, crossing her arms in a stance that mimicked Vezely's.

"It would disturb his slumber," Vezely turned her gaze to Cyane, "Perhaps our Master desires we claim the region before others try."

"Are we prepared to wage such an assault?" Cyane pondered back.

"On the north, yes, but not on the south," she thought forward, wondering if Rohan and Gondor were soon on the Dark Lord's trajectory. "Khand is still recovering from civil war, and Harad, well that current drought is only going to get worse. From Rhun, the Easterling Empire would march alone," she spoke dismally of the current state of Rhunic affairs. "But the north, we can take the north."

"What of the elves of this region?" Cyane had not stopped thinking about them since leaving the mountain pass. She knew little of their culture or history, but from what she witnessed of their fighting skill she suspected they would make formidable opponents.

"Their numbers have dwindled as of late and the king is an isolationist," Vezely explained what knowledge the Easterling command had gleaned from their allies in this region. "He did not aid the dwarves in their fiery exit from Erebor, nor do I believe he would come to their aid again. And we will quickly burn their forests, pollute their waters, and leave them to rot in their underground fortress." Vezely finished steadily with a small confident smile, as if her plans had long been set.

"Unfortunate. I would have enjoyed fighting them," Cyane spoke confidentially, and then critiquing what she witnessed of the prior scrimmage, "They are quick with arrows but I suspect their sword skill is weak."

"The bow is a preferable weapon for those who live in a forest environment," Vezely confirmed and adding with a smirk, "And for cowards who hide in trees." She returned her eyes back to the dark canopy that enveloped the forest below. _Was not such a habitat a cage?_ She pondered. To live under the trees, surrounded by green growth and life was a stark contrast to the arid lands she grew up on. The Balchoth were nomads, having to move in order to survive. A forest, however, could sustain a population. She thought again of the vision, the view she beheld of the sun streaming in from under the trees and the feeling of warmth surrounding her as the moment replayed. _Not a cage..._

"They are different. Like you, but not like you," after a moment of silence Cyane let her thoughts flow, breaking Vezely from her own. "The one with hair like the blazing sun, his eyes did not stray. I assumed he knew of our charade."

"He knew nothing but that we were not merchants," Vezely scoffed. "But the elf has guts, I'll give him that," thinking again how he did not lower his bow when she held hostage the red haired one. He had eyes like spears and she assumed he had just as sharp a temper. "I would not mind meeting him again in battle, to see what he is truly made of," she mused.

The young Captain lifted an eyebrow. It was rare for the General to express intrigue in another warrior. "You are besotted," Cyane joked sarcastically, as if she had just pined for a potential lover.

Vezely narrowed gaze shifted to her unkindly, but she changed the subject rather than responding, "We should leave. Tell the others to pack up."

"Aye," Cyane bowed her head, second guessing her remark as she left.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all for your encouragement to keep going. I was so worried this story wouldn't lift off after Sun Sets, but I'm glad it has found a small readership. I also find it endearing how dark!Vez unsettles many of you. It just shows that I made her character very likeable in Sun Sets and that her current state of debauchery is effective. I hope her journey is just as interesting to ride along with. :)**


	5. Troubled Thoughts

**Chapter 5 - Troubled Thoughts**

The company halted their horses and Vezely ordered Shakal and Sandor to dismount and check that the parameters were clear before dismounting herself.

"The Elven Gates," Vezely announced their location, seemingly unimpressed as she strolled straight through the decorative barricade. The sculpted tips of white stone antlers twisted and intertwined to form what once must have been a grand entryway into the Woodland Realm, but now it was sullied by years of neglect.

"More like long disused gates," Cyane remarked dryly catching up beside her. The young Captain ran her bare fingers over the carved ledge of a dried up circular fountain that stood at its center, finding their tips blackened from the accumulated dirt and grime.

"None in the Woodland Realm reside this far south, but it is still considered an entry point into their borders," Vezely explained, causing Cyane to stall her steps and cautiously place her hand on the hilt of her scimitar.

But Vezely continued her stroll, not fearing being set upon by the Woodland Guard. "It will serve as a base point for later campaigns," she stated confidently, taking a mental map of the area as she walked down several steps to a broken tiled pathway underneath.

Three meters in, her steps halted in front of what appeared as a standalone pillar; the dead overgrowth covering the lean statue from view. The area smelled unpleasantly of orc piss, causing her nose to curled up in disgust, but it did not deter her investigation. Her hand slowly reached upward, as if hesitating before abruptly yanking down the vines covering the statue's facade.

_I have seen this before._ The possibility stirred in her mind as she stared into the elf maiden's softly chiseled hooded eyes. The statue's bleak appearance shifted in her vision to one of pristine ivory. Sunlight filtered through the trees and danced upon its soft curves. The excess brush was gone and she heard water babbling from the fountain behind her.

"Bellethiel!" A woman's clear voice called to the right of her, drawing her gaze. "Bellethiel, you should not run off so quickly!" It continued; its pitch displaying concern for the safety of the one being called. Vezely searched but she saw no one, only a tidy tiled pathway leading indefinitely into a lush green forest.

Cyane reached Vezely's side, finding her expression stuck and her eyes wide and full of confusion as she stared into the dark depths of the twisted forest. "General, is everything alright?" she asked carefully.

A single blink and the path returned to its present dreariness. Vezely furled her brow and swallowed her discomfort with some spit before shifting her now unkind eyes to the Captain. "I am fine," she returned sternly, then calling past her, "Tros, bring that fresh kill."

The blood of the rabbit they just hunted was used to paint a stylized eye on the statue, the common symbol of the Dark Lord in the Easterling Empire. The defilement served as a marker for their future invasion and a preface to claiming the territory as the empire's own.

* * *

Cloaked again in their merchant garb, the seven Easterlings traveled the edge of the forest south to Dol Guldur. The orc activity in the area had made the road all but abandoned at night, making them less concerned about encountering Woodmen who lived in fortified settlements just south of the old elven gates. Instead their concern was one skin changer. The beast escaped from Azog's imprisonment and stood watch over his region of the forest, hunting down any orcs that wandered into it. Vezely hoped their disguise would serve as a deterrent from attack, yet they did not let their guard down. They heard a great howl in the distance, but luckily nothing came of it.

The destruction surrounding Amon Lanc, the ancient name of the hill that the ruined stronghold sat, had spread in parameter since Vezely was last summoned. Nothing grew and no life could be found, so the sound of their horse's hooves crunching on dead leaves and dried brush was all they heard as they continued toward a decaying stone causeway. They tethered their horses to the trunks of twisted trees and went across on foot. The company followed closely behind Vezely who was more assure in her steps as the only one with knowledge of what they would find on the other side. The fortress appeared abandoned; defunct staircases, twisted metal, and crumbling walls. As they minded their steps through the fallen debris, an eerie, discomforting feeling weighed heavy on their hearts. It was far from a spiritually uplifting experience some of them believed they would find being in the presence of the One.

"Wait here." Vezely left them at another entryway, going to the center of a bridge where she would speak to their Master. "My lord," she addressed him politely in Black Speech, placing a fist to her chest and kneeling upon one knee, dipping her head low after. A courtesy she had only ever provided one being.

In front of her, a shadow seeped through a crevice in the air, spilling as if black sunlight through a broken cliff face.

"It is an honor to be in your presence again," she added humbly, keeping her eyes diverted as the darkness shifted around her.

Sauron inspected the creation he began molding over six-hundred years ago when he sent his orcs on a delicate mission: to pass into the southern borders of the Woodland Realm and return with a raven haired elfling, alive and unsullied. He knew an heir of the line of Luthien had been born in those woods; an heir of a foe he had once suffered a humiliating defeat. His revenge on that bloodline and the elves who held it in high esteem would be by twisting and corrupting one of its beloved descendents. Knowing the orcs were ill-suited to raise a child, he entrusted her into the care of his strongest servants in the East, the Balchoth, hoping the evil Men would raise her to be as cruel as them. Then, she stood before him as a fearful elf-child with tears in her eyes. Today, she held herself with the confidence of a commander. Any fairness gifted by her bloodline was erased by centuries of foul deeds and evil intent. Now she appeared as nothing more than one of the race of evil Men. _A devoted and able servant, but a servant nonetheless._

"You are late." A deep sinister voice fell from the darkness and echoed about her.

"Apologies my lord, I came as soon as I could," Vezely rose slowly, keeping her eyes downcast.

"This information now travels east before you," he stated unkindly, her tardiness prompting him to send his requests to the Easterling Empire's capital, "War is coming..."

Despite being chastised, a pleased smile slowly formed on Vezely's face as Sauron proceeded to reveal his plans. He desired her to muster a legion of Easterlings to assist the orcs of Moria in taking the lands surrounding the Lonely Mountain. She would command this army and help establish their first outpost in the West, expanding the power of Dol Guldur northward.

..."My sword is yours, my army is yours," Vezely responded dutifully, prepared to return to the capital and put his plans into fruition, but she would not leave without revealing her own desires. "But I would make one request. I seek command of the dragon, my lord. If I can be guaranteed that beast in future campaigns..."

_Bold for a servant_. Immediately reading her thoughts to gauge the reasoning behind needing such a weapon in Rhun, he discovered her worries - the rebellions, the internal rivalries threatening her claim to army leadership, the weakened states of Harad and Khand - he interrupted her, "You have lost control."

"The Blue Istari, my lord, they are causing disruptions," she returned steadily.

"If you cannot control those lands, perhaps I should find someone who can."

"Control is not lost, my lord. It is a precaution," Vezely explained firmly, tilting her chin up.

"The dragon is not yours to command," he chided, her boldness unwelcomed. "Bring your armies north. Await my command." _A devoted and able servant, but a servant nonetheless._

Vezely narrowed her eyes under a furled brow, but held her tongue out of respect. She placed a fist to her chest and ducked her head low as the shadow retreated and disappeared.

* * *

The worn wooden plate held half a round of rye bread, a slice of dried cheese, and a few cured olives, all to be washed down with a pint of cheap ale served in a crude mug with a thick handle on its side. Tavern food in the West was as unsophisticated as the people who inhabited it, as least that is what Easterlings gathered about their foe and they were hardly proved wrong when traveling abroad.

The company stopped on the outskirts of Rhovanion. There stood the farthest Western settlement and a place to replenish supplies before trekking across the inhospitable badlands of Rhun to return to the empire's capital. With no end in sight to the evening's rainstorm, Vezely decided they could afford to stay the night at an inn. Dry warmth, a bed, and some decent food would serve them well, but the latter was already a disappointment.

They split up into smaller groups before entering, not wanting to attract attention; though undoubtedly other guests staying at the establishment that night desired to do the same.

The loud chatter and obnoxious laughter quickly wore on Cyane's nerves, "Westerners are too loud," she scoffed in her native tongue before taking another swig of her bitter ale, "I cannot hear myself think!"

Vezely found the noise a welcomed deterrent from her own uncomfortable thoughts. "Perhaps you should retire," she suggested calmly back in Westron, her eyes shifting to the right with a smirk forming on her lips right after; it was the side of the tavern where Sandor sat with two others from the company.

Cyane tilted her head and bit her bottom lip, hesitating. She desired to spend the evening with Sandor but also wanted to continue conversing with Vezely. Covertly she wanted to make sure everything was alright. Cyane could sense the General was ill at ease. Partly from the Dark Lord's admonishment because of their tardiness, but perhaps from something else. Twice on the trip she had witnessed Vezely removed from reality. Once during their elvish escort from Mirkwood and the other at the elvish gates. In over a decade by her side, she had never seen her become completely checked-out from her surroundings. Cyane did not expect Vezely to admit to this, but it concerned her enough to want to push on the matter.

"Go," Vezely encouraged, having gauged Cyane's indecision about her night's company long before their meal arrived. While the rest of group knew that evening was considered off-time, for Cyane, her duties as the General's apprentice were less clear. She continued, "We have a long ride ahead and there will be no time for such dalliances upon our return to the capital." As soon as they arrived back home, Cyane would immediately be put to work in preparing the legions to move north.

Peering over her shoulder, Vezely followed the young Captain as she meandered through the crowded, smoke-filled room. She watched as her approach toward the young lieutenant caused a charmed smile to form on his face and longing to appear in his gaze, both of which she returned. _You are the one besotted_, Vezely thought wryly, recalling Cyane's remark several evenings past regarding the interest she showed in the golden haired elf.

She considered again why the archer remained etched in her memory. _An opponent worth my time, perhaps? _For too long she had gone unchallenged, making his boldness refreshing._ What would it be like to fight against an elf? _She wondered further of the archer's skill set; his strength and agility. _Is he as quick as I? As strong? As fearless? _But a lustful thought of a different sort entered her mind causing her eyes to narrow. Annoyed in having thought it, she rolled them back to the untidy mug that held her cheap ale; too soon to be emptied and her thirst not yet quenched.

Her thoughts shifted. _So I shall return not having secured the dragon, or with news unknown._ Bitter, she dug her nails into the mug's sides as if she was strangling a person's throat. _You are still his chosen commander_, she tried to reason, releasing her grip and feeling the residual pulse of pressure coursing through her nails and up the length of her fingers. _And they can do little about that_.

Dealing with bureaucrats was not her strong suit. The magistrates, who were the chosen representatives of the clans which formed the Easterling Empire, would invite her to a council meeting upon her return. Even if it was only to relay old news and confirm their pledge to supply a legion for the Dark Lord. Six-thousand men needed to be prepped and readied to march northward within a fortnight. Undoubtedly, her appointed command of this legion would not go unchallenged by the more vocal of the magistrates. The politics had not changed in the hundred years of the empire's existence. Those, mainly representatives of clans that held ancient grudges against the Balchoth, desired to see another lead their armies. They would remind the council of Öldür's worth but they would not be foolish enough to go against the desires of the Dark Lord. Words would be exchanged between parties, but no actions taken.

_The Dark Lord yet champions me__, _she attempted self-encouragement. _Though obviously not enough to allow me command of that dragon... _

Self-doubt was not something Vezely had acquired experience with; not since childhood when she was yet learning her trade and earning the respect of her clan. But this trip shook her confidence and made her question her sanity. Tonight she would not let her thoughts stray to those strange visions, preferring they be left in that twisted forest and forgotten.

The last sip of ale was worse than the first. She set the mug down on the countertop not to politely, the clunk alerting the old bartender to possible need of his service.

"You empty lass?"

"What?" Her gaze sharply narrowed on the elderly gentleman, as if his words were insinuating something other than her mug.

The bartender was methodically drying some freshly washed cups with a worn towel, but his hands froze under her gaze. "Your ale?" He persisted, nodding to her mug quickly after, "Wanta 'nother?"

Despite the poor quality of the brew, she did desire more. Her gaze lightened as she pulled her purse from her inner pocket. Her fingers filtered through the coins and the one gold tooth she took from the bandit on the trade route there before pulling out the correct change. The bartender poured her ale as she slid the change on the countertop over to him, but the man's eyes were angled towards the other side of the hall.

"You're not worried about your friend there leavin' with that rough looking fella?"

Vezely peered over her shoulder. Cyane was leading Sandor by the hand to the tavern's backstairs which led to the upper floor guest rooms. She turned back around, taking the now filled mug's thick handle and pulling it closer to her, desiring its content's soothing properties but not its taste. "It is her body," she replied unconcerned, taking a sip, "She can do with it what she likes."

The bartender grimaced, discomforted by the casual response to the act soon to be committed, though he served all kinds equally. "I assume you aren't from around here?" He asked, hoping to spark conversation.

Vezely's gaze narrowed again. "And I assume you like to ask questions," she returned perturbed, accusing him of being nosey.

"Meant no offense lass, meant no offense. Just enjoy conversation to pass the time is all," he apologized, picking up the towel to continue his task of cup drying

She shifted in her seat, finding the old man curious and perhaps his desire to converse of use. "No, not from around here, but we are headed northward," she lied, relaxing her tone and demeanor, "Do you know of Lake Town?"

"Ah, Lake Town. Now there is a place that has fallen on hard times..."

Vezely would spend the following half-hour finding out more about the region the Easterling armies would soon invade. _Local knowledge is always useful_, she thought, listening to him ramble on. At least the one-sided conversation took her mind away from other thoughts.

* * *

"Your mind is not fully here," Sandor accused Cyane while lying in the guest room's bed; the overstuffed mattress yet feeling strange to their ground-hardened backs.

She turned on her side, her hand reaching to stroke his wavy black hair."I am worried," she admitted quietly, running her fingertips beside his ear.

"You, worried?" He teased with a laugh, admiring the way the soft candlelight caressed her olive skin. "You have been clamoring to go to war ever since I met you."

"Not of the war," Cyane corrected sternly removing her touch, then wondering if she should hold her tongue rather than divulge her true meaning. "No, I am worried about the General."

Sandor rolled onto his back and stared absently up at the ceiling. _Again of the General_, he thought mildly annoyed of Cyane's close relationship with their leader and how she continued to worry over troubles not her own. "You waste concern," he stated a moment later, revealing thoughts he long held from her, "Especially for one who would not return the favor."

Cyane looked at him confused, "What do you mean?"

"The General is not like us, Cyane," he took her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers as invitation to move closer. "She has walked this earth long before our great grandparents and she will undoubtedly walk this earth long after we are ash and bone. How many squires do you think she had before you? You are privileged indeed to have been chosen, and one day you will become a great leader of your own contingent because of it, but do not think you hold real meaning to her?"

Cyane remained silent as Sandor wrapped his arms around her and she laid her cheek on his bare chest, internalizing the tentative truth behind his words. _Perhaps he is right_, she considered solemnly, listening to his heart beat, _I am but one of many inferiors in her long life. She holds no one close so why should I think myself any different?..._

* * *

The bartender babbled on about the stingy Master of Lake Town while retelling the tale of the region's prosperity in the time of Dale before its destruction by Smaug. The novelty of hearing a Westerner's point-of-view was the only thing keeping Vezely in her seat.

..."You are headed to Lake Town?" A smooth voice inquired beside her, interrupting the bartender's prose.

Turning her attention, her eyes met a roguish young man standing at the countertop. _A merchant_, she deduced after briefly zeroing in on his blue tunic's tidy stitching, the apparent newness of his dark brown leather coat, the silver plating on his belt buckle, and the horn-handled tanning knife next to his sword on his hip. Her eyes traveled down his body before returning to his young face which held a close shaven beard and was framed by medium length, light brown hair. A small smile formed on her lips but she did not respond to his question.

A bit surprised by the woman's soft features and intrigued by the roaming gaze of her blue grey eyes, he continued his inquiry slickly, "If you are, I hope you are not going alone."

"Of course not," she quipped, raising an amused eyebrow as she turned her head, knowing the man would sit next to her. Peering at him from the corner of her eye, she added flirtatiously, "But my company has retired for the evening, and I have yet to quench my thirst."

"Another for the lady," he told the bartender assuredly, holding up two coins between his index and middle finger.

The bartender obliged, but not without providing the young gentleman a suspicious glare as he took a seat next to her, knowing he was being replaced as her conversation partner.

"I am from Lake Town," he told her, sliding his own mug in front of the bartender for a refill.

"Is that so?" She returned unimpressed, feeling his gaze searching the side of her face.

"Aye, and headed back that way myself." Hoping to gain her eye's attention again, he added, "Perhaps I can be a bit of service for one who trades in?"

_Unfortunate_, she thought before responding to his inquiry, for if he was truly from Lake Town and returning there soon, her company's non-presence would reveal their farce. _Though it's probably not consequential_, she further reasoned, thinking the merchant held only minor importance and wouldn't concern himself with what would appear as a curious lie of a small group of merchants. _Then again, any discrepancy had the potential to disrupt future devices..._

"Spices, of Rhunic variety," she finally met his gaze, giving him a pleasant smile. "You are far from home?"

Now he was the one whose gaze roamed her body. Noting again her shortened hair and the gold accessories gracing her fingers, "So are you, I gather..."

Vezely entertained the man's interest, playing her spice merchant character flawlessly while he played the angle of being a charitable connection-maker. He was a fur trader, apparently from a family whose business was well-established in the northern region despite the economic downturn. He was of an age where he would be married with a child or two, but also one who spent long enough spans of time away from his home and the bed of his wife that he did not pass up the chance to flirt with women in taverns. He became well plied on ale, having kept their mugs filled during their chat, so with some choice dialogue, a few cheeky smiles and batting of eyelashes, he easily became forgetful of familial obligations and did not hesitate when accepting Vezely's invitation to go upstairs upon the tavern's closing time.

_Perhaps too long away from his wife_, Vezely thought of aggressiveness of his kiss and roaming hands. As soon as they entered the poorly lit space, he had her against the wall. Not that she minded, she preferred it forceful, as if another form of battle. But his kiss was coarse, and the stubble of his unshaven face scrapped against her skin as he moved his lips to her neckline. He also smelled unpleasantly thick of alcohol, pipe weed, and leather.

His rough hands roamed across her shoulders and down her forearms, and she tugged on his brown hair, steering his head as he proceeded to caress her neckline with his kiss. A small part of her wanted to let him take her to bed, desiring to feel something other than annoyance and anger from this trip's low points. _Simple pleasure,_ she thought as his hands gripped her waist. _Even if provided by a lowly Western fur trader_. Yet his touch stirred nothing inside, no sexual urge as she pretended to enjoy it with soft moans and returned touch, reminding her why she stopped taking lovers long ago.

Her hands found his belt's buckle, lingering just inches away from his tanning knife as she pulled his hips towards her. The suggestive invite returned his hungry eyes to hers, and she provided him a mischievous smile, running her tongue across the bottom edge of her top teeth. He cupped the side of her face with his hands, pulling her into an eager kiss. His fingers moved to her ears, and slipped underneath the headband that covered them.

But then his hands froze and he quickly pulled back his face, opening his eyes wide upon her. At first she was unaware of why he stopped, forgetting the abnormality of one of her kind being among these Men, let alone partaking in such base pleasures. But as he pulled her headband upward to discover the pointed tips his touch felt, she realized.

Mired in utter confusion, the man could only blurt, "You're an...?"

Her hand quickly covered his mouth as the other, having remained on his beltline unsheathed and forcefully stabbed his own tanning knife into his chest. "Shhhh," she calmed as if comforting a hurt child, muffling his final cry as she observed the life drain from his face. She bit her lip as he slid off her and down onto the floor. Closing her eyes and tilting her head back against the wall, she experienced some perverted form of ecstasy. _Simple pleasure_, she thought releasing a moan. _Even if provided by a lowly Western fur trader_.

* * *

"You seem well, my friend." The invitation to join Thalion for a drink relieved Legolas of his worry. It had been three weeks since Thalion's brother, Anessen, was killed in the skirmish with the orcs and evil Men and the tall elf had been in mourning ever since.

Thalion smiled kindly back, grateful to have his friend's company that evening for he wanted to share with him his recent thoughts. Legolas and Thalion grew up together. Each were of noble Sindarin blood, but desired the life of a guard rather than a life at court. His parents had already sailed West, but his twin brother and him decided to stay and protect the forest that bore them.

"I have a changed perspective," Thalion confessed calmly after Legolas sat across from him.

The words immediately evoked one thing to Legolas, who responded carefully, "You are considering leaving these shores?"

"No, not yet," Thalion returned with a shake of his head and a half smile, a characteristic quirk that revealed he held some embarrassment in his true meaning. "It is more subtle than that." He proceeded to pour his friend a glass of Dorwinion wine from the silver canter nearby, while thinking again about his future devices before stating them. After taking a deep breath, he declared assuredly, "I will pledge myself to Lady Adele."

Legolas tilted his head to the side, before a pleasant smile formed on his face. Such news he had not expected to hear from Thalion, who had courted the fair Lady Adele for ages but had not the courage to formally ask for her hand.

"I cannot keep expecting the world around us to become bright again," Thalion reasoned hastily, looking down at his filled glass as his hands fidgeted around it. "I realized, you have to create your own starlight within the darkness."

Legolas internalized this perspective before gathering a response. He raised his cup towards him to toast, "I am happy for you, my friend. I know Adele will also be joyful." It was no secret that Lady Adele cared deeply for Thalion, though both were quiet about pursuing partnership.

They would drink and continue discussing related topics with Legolas steering the conversation in order to keep it light. "... How did you know your friendship with Lady Adele was something more?" He asked curiously, pouring both of them another glass of wine.

Thalion looked inward, and a soft smile formed on his face, "It was gradual and sudden at the same time," he admitted, and he slowly began to recount his feelings. "...One day I was surrounded by many, but my gaze only saw her, and it mattered not that my wits were taken because her very presence completed me..." Thalion continued to speak poetically about his growing affections, explaining how their friendship blossomed into a closer relationship. Unexpectedly for Legolas, Thalion turned the conversation around, suggesting kindly, "Perhaps you should do the same." But Legolas's demeanor only showed confusion as to his meaning. "You care deeply for Tauriel, do you not?" He added thoughtfully.

"We are close, but I do not think it is the same," Legolas started uncertain.

"You would not know unless you ask her," Thalion casually completed his sentence for him, assuming his friend held a similar nervous apprehension. He then explained how this was also a conversation that he and Adele needed to have.

For Legolas, the joyful conversation now turned to one of discomfort. His eyes diverted, as did his thoughts. Was the friendship he held with Tauriel capable of becoming a closer bond? He watched her grow from childhood, and he felt as her brother. But at the same time, he long desired companionship. He admired Tauriel, respected her, trusted her, and enjoyed her company among all others. Was this the basis for love as it was for Thalion and Adele?

"...I know your father would have say in who you pledge yourself to, but he has no hold on your heart," Thalion suggested kindly, knowing all too well of Thranduil's strictness, not only as a king but as a father.

"No he does not," Legolas agreed solidly, now returning his eyes to his friend. "But such a bond, no heart treads into lightly. For me, this requires even greater consideration."

"Indeed, it should be fully considered." Finding mixed concerns in his eyes, Thalion realized he had intruded on thoughts his friend was not readily comfortable to treat. He attempted to turn the conversation around, "In any case, I plan to ask Adele tomorrow night, during the feast..."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for your patience! This school term is kicking my butt. :) And side note, I am enjoying writing internal dialogue for Vez, something I didn't do much in "Sun Sets" and hope to try out more here. I so enjoy giving her struggles to grapple with.**


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